


BBCSH 'Wall' 6/6

by tigersilver



Series: 'Wall' [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-17
Updated: 2012-03-17
Packaged: 2017-11-02 06:47:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/366115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tigersilver/pseuds/tigersilver





	BBCSH 'Wall' 6/6

Er, uh.

  
  


VI. [The _plus one_ ]

Correction: he Googles   _‘sex’_. 

‘Good sex’, ‘safe sex’ (not the same) and ‘pleasing a partner’ .  Followed by ‘pleasing a same-sex partner’ and ‘how to make your man purr’. 

The hit list’s a mile long and rather terrifying. Even filtred, it wastes three whole days just furtively ingesting,  sorting, and then deleting or storing for future reference the images, bytes, blurbs and the remarkably torrid _Cosmo_ articles, much less the glut of possibly extraneous information, products, enhancements and, well, _stuff_. 

He absorbs every source from Heloise and Abelard to Brokeback Mountain. 

In the end he throws up his hands (literally and metaphorically) and sneaks out to the chemist’s on the corner quite early in the morning (as soon as they open) and purchases five different sorts of sheath and every type of lube they have in stock. Also hand crème, as they have it, and his thumb’s chafing and growing calloused, what with rubbing another out every little while in torrid anticipation. 

He’s been on edge for ages. Likely he’ll go mad soon. He’s also learnt that words like ‘turgid’ , ‘thrust’ and ‘swivel’ have meanings other than crime-related. 

And John. John’s so fucking _John_ it’s likely to drive him to distraction. He loves it, he hates it. John had certainly better appreciate his deductions. 

…If he can’t dazzle John, there where is he? 

He can’t think that John’s going to accept this with equanimity, no matter how bloody obvious it is. He feels the necessity to create a ‘situation’; it behooves him to practice his lines:

“Ah, John. There you are, then. Would you care to shag?” 

No good. (The flat’s a disaster, all taupe and soulless. John’s missing 221B and so is he, fiercely.) This is not a careless order he’s issuing. 

“John, it’s transparently clear that we are—we are—we are…important to one another. In interest of cementing our mutually shared walls to create a more indestructible fortress, may I shag you silly, till you scream? Or _I_ do?” 

(It’s that one more step, that final one, the words (John will _need_ words, damn him) and he can’t for the life of him sort how he’ll manage. Bluster?) 

“John, I am working my fingers to the bone to remove Moriarity from our lives, as you know. Would  you kindly help me toward that end by inserting your cock in my arse? On a regular basis, thanks. I assure you it would be very encouraging. I’d be inspired.” 

“Even though we share same soap, John, the same deodorant and the same shampoo, for some reason the smell of them on you is a fucking trigger for all the animal in me. I’m going bloody rabid, frothing. Put me out of my misery, mate?” 

_So_ not good. _Pathetic_.

Try again: 

“John, clearly when Moriarity spoke of’ burning out my heart’ he referred to _you_. Not arguing with it. No, I’m handing it over, alright? May I have a receipt, please? In kind, thanks; it’s a barter, of course—I’ll take your body, in my bed. No—everything. I want it _all_.” 

More pathetic, if possible. Also…awkward.

“John. John, I can’t show you proof right this moment, but you are my…my everything. And I’m yours, because you wouldn’t still be here with me—not murdering me in my sleep—if you weren’t, so. _So_. Let’s just have at it? The suspense is murdering me, John. It’s criminal. _Fucking_ frothing here. Please just have mercy, won’t you?” 

Oh, god. That won’t do, either. 

Fine. Show evidence, then. Lay it out, the way he always does: organized.

He piles his purchases on John’s counterpane (blunt proof he’s sincere; means to an end also) and dons his satin dressing gown (invitation; familiar…sexy?). Lays there next to them (Exhibit A) while John is in the shower (available upon exit, already naked; sensitized?) and proceeds to bite his bottom lip to shreds for ten eternal minutes.

“What’s this, then?” John asks, entering steamy and clad in a towel, one eyebrow seal-dark with water and cocked inquiringly, and Sherlock smiles. Grins like a capuchin monkey and hopes against hope he’s got all his threads knotted correctly. 

“You never knew your parents, did you?” he asks, in a throwaway voice. “That’s why there’s nothing. I long suspected.” 

“No,” John replies after a short pause. “I’m an…orphan, actually.” He eyes Sherlock obliquely, rubbing his short fair hair with a hand towel. “And?” The unspoken ‘What’s it to you?’ is very clear. 

“I…” Sherlock swallows, “wondered. That’s all.” He blinks slowly at John, as if he were a cat and John a likely playfellow. “Come here,” he invites, and pats the mattress he reclines on.  Clears his throat when John doesn’t budge. “Because you didn’t say.” 

“They were killed in a lorry accident when I was a baby. Harry and I went to my father’s brother’s family.” John shrugs, as if this is nothing. “They raised us; it was fine. That’s it. Er…does it matter?” 

He flaps a mellow hand at Sherlock, still bland and calm of expression as he takes in all the unmistakable invitation Sherlock’s laid out for him, like a picnic, on his bed. 

“…No,” Sherlock dips his chin to his bared breastbone and shifts his hips suggestively. He lays a caressing palm across the stretch of satin over his own dick. Which is half-‘turgid’. Oh, dear god. “I like to know, though. Every atom. In the future, John, you must tell me these things.”

“Hmm,” John blinks at him. “Alright.” 

Sherlock is immensely pleased with John for that iunhesitating grant of access—tries for secretly pleased, not gloating—though his grin might be seventeen degrees dafter now. He’s pleased with John as well for being a trooper about life’s brutal knocks from the get-go. _He_ can’t imagine a Sherlock without Mummy, Papa and Mycroft, even so, and considering the possibility makes him shiver. He instantly resolves to be all the family John needs from this moment forward. 

He’s pleased _because_ —

“Ah,” John hums, nodding and completely unaware he’s just been mentally snatched from the Watsons and herded summarily into the Holmes’s holding pens. “You’ve…ah… decided to study _areas_ , Sherlock? That’s what this,” he nods to the pile, “is about?” 

“Well…yes, John,” Sherlock refrains from being snide. “And not so much study as…participate?” He waggles his eyebrows meaningfully instead. Waggles his whole body and in particular his hip bones, grinding them down on the wrinkled duvet. “Come?” 

John rocks back on his bare heels and releases the dampened towel, licking his lips. Water droplets stray down his chest and flanks in a very aesthetic manner. Sherlock notes _he’s_ salivating but John’s the one actually swallowing so hard his throat bobs. Then he does that thing with the slight neck roll and the unconscious jaw-tightening, the tell that always indicates he’s prepping for a leap into action—and really rather chuffed to be doing so. 

Sherlock’s on bloody _fire_.

“Right,” his John says. “Er, mnh. _Coming_.” 

(TBC, naturally.)

  
  



End file.
